


Our Foundations

by myshkins



Series: Red Snow; Red Skies [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, basically their friendship is my fav
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myshkins/pseuds/myshkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saint Petersburg, 1824: As the tsarist regime continues to suppress the lower classes and the institution of serfdom continues to choke the empire, tightly-knit groups of young students, nobles, and officers begin to gather together to voice their discontent. One of these clandestine societies is “Les Amis de L’Abaisse” or in Russian simply “Druzya”: The Friends.</p>
<p>Konstantin Enzholrayev and Kirill Komfyerin have been great friends since childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Foundations

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading: since this AU takes place in Russia, it hardly made sense for Les Amis to keep their French names. So, naturally, they all get Russian names. My goal in creating these was to retain the phonetic and orthographic essence of the originals while "Russifying" them. Enjolras' full name is Konstantin Pavlovich Enzholrayev. Combeferre's is Kirill Maximovich Komfyerin. Courfeyrac (who is only mentioned briefly in this fic) is Nikolai Mikhailovich Kufyerov. The only major difference between Russian names and those in Western languages is the middle name, or the patronymic: it indicates a person's father's name. For example, Enzholrayev's patronymic is Pavlovich, which means his father's name is Pavel. 
> 
> As of right now, I intend to write a series of fics for this au, which by the end should include all of Les Amis as well as Marius, Cosette, and Valjean, and maybe even more.
> 
> With that, enjoy! :)

December, 1824: the present

Konstantin Enzholrayev knows precisely from whence the note comes before Dunya, the old decrepit housekeeper of the equally shabby building, puts it into his waiting hand. Such pristine white paper with a large seal could come from one place only: his father.

Kirill Komfyerin watches stolidly from his writing desk, pen in hand, as Enzholrayev’s eyes flit quickly over the haughtily elegant script. A frown places a furrow in his lofty blond brow and hardens his mouth.

“My father has invited me to his New Year’s Eve ball,” he intones after a pause, his gaze lingering darkly on the paper as though intent on burning through it.

Komfyerin’s eyes, warm and inquisitive behind his spectacles and mess of chestnut hair, remain on his friend.

“Interesting that he chooses to renew communication with you now, after such a long silence,” he remarks. “With what purpose, I wonder?”

“Had our agreement to sever relations with one another been less decisive, I would have assumed that his aim was to taunt. He would not mock me thus. I believe he may actually want to see me.”

“But a ball?”

“That vexes me, too.”

Enzholrayev sinks into a chair, absorbed in thought, his father’s letter still in hand. Komfyerin, laying his work aside, speaks up again.

“Pavel Konstantinovich, as I remember, though taciturn, could have his fits of drama. Perhaps this invitation is nothing but a long overdue case.”

“Perhaps…My father remembers you, too. He asks me to give you his greetings, and says that if your studies allow, you are welcome to attend. And if the two of us go…”

“Kufyerov will come too, invited or not,” Komfyerin nods knowingly. Their friend Prince Nikolai Kufyerov is not in the habit of forgoing either dancing or pleasant company, as the both of them know all too well. 

“But are you really thinking of going? I confess, I cannot imagine you at a ball,” Komfyerin smiles gently at him, unable to suppress the image in his mind of a glowering Enzholrayev, arms folded, resolutely avoiding meeting the eyes of the expectant young ladies hoping to have a single word bestowed upon them by this seraph of a man, and perhaps, if she is extremely lucky, a dance.

“It’s plain that he has something particular in store unknown to us,” Enzholrayev continues, brushing off Komfyerin’s bemusement, “but perhaps he does not actually expect us, in which case, the best course is clear.”

“I take it we’re going to a ball, then?”

“But of course.”

—

1807

Balls at the Enzholrayevs’ are frequent, but being too young to attend, the two boys, Konstantin and Kirill, are always sent off to bed before the guests arrive. Neither of them are particularly enamored by the idea of a ball—those stuffy gatherings of noble Saint Petersburg socialites who desire nothing but to see and be seen—but being excluded from anything makes one all the more curious, and so naturally they sneak down one of the servant’s staircases and peek through a crack in a concealed side door. Konstantin, the smaller and slighter of the two, perches himself on Kirill’s back. The women, like birds of paradise, complete with bold feathers and voices like songs, and the men, straight-backed, easy, elegant, whirl together to a music all their own. The two young boys, so much like brothers, remain hidden there watching until the images and colors blur before their eyes. Konstantin’s blond head of curls begins to droop on Kirill’s shoulder. Gently shaking his comrade awake and pulling him along by the hand, Kirill leads Konstantin back upstairs, the faint tinkling music accompanying the sleepy travelers through empty dark corridors.

—

1817

“Isn’t that Count Enzholrayev and his sons?” a red-haired round-eyed young lady whispers to her giggling companion, indicating with a barely perceptible tilt of her head an aging gentleman and two young men on the other end of the drawing room.

“Pavel Konstantinovich only has one son. Konstantin. The light-haired one on the left.”

“He looks like a child, and very serious, too. Well? And who is the other one?”

“His name is Kirill…something. Old Princess Lebedeva, who is very close with the Count, explained it all to me. It turns out that one of the serfs on the Count’s estate bore an illegitimate child by heaven knows whom. When no one came forward to claim their paternity, the Count graciously allowed the child to be brought up in his own home and at his own expense, sparing nothing. The boy’s had nothing but the best. I look on Count Enzholrayev now as nothing short of a saint,” the red-haired young lady’s companion concludes with a solemn nod, her rather rodent-like face betraying a combination of awe and self-satisfaction.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Kirill and Konstantin sit side-by-side, alienated by small talk about people in social circles they are not familiar with. Graying decorated officials talk in jovial voices about “tea at Prince So-and-so’s” and “the races at Peterhof” and which ladies they had had the pleasure of dining with the previous week. However, at hearing the word “education”, both Kirill and Konstantin light up, the former leaning slightly forward in his seat to listen, the latter remaining still and fixing his icy gaze on the speaker.

“…doing well to teach our children these Western ideas,” an old gentleman with a lorgnette is saying. “The more of our young sons we send off to France and Germany, the better. The Russian nature is too sure of itself, too hot-headed. Let them all learn Italian, French, and German, let them go to the salons, that they might be civilized and better our Russia for it.”

“Pardon me,” Kirill interjects easily, obviously in his element, “but it is my understanding that nationality is beside the point. Yes, the Western Enlightenment has imbued us with higher understanding, but this alone is not civilization. If Russia would become civilized, we must allow her to blossom in her own time and in her own way. Learning French does not hurt, so long as one does not forget Russian.”

The old gentleman with the lorgnette, obviously not accustomed to being addressed in so forthright a manner by a young person, draws himself up slightly, but does not say anything more. Konstantin looks at his friend as if on the verge of smiling.

—

1820

“I assume you’ll go to Komfyerin? There will be no where else for you,” Count Enzholrayev murmurs just loud enough to be heard, his back to his son.

“Yes,” Konstantin replies. His father’s study is cold and dark; neither the fire or the lamps have been lit, as it’s barely seven o’ clock. The feeble fingers of the gray Saint Petersburg morning barely manage to touch the room’s cavernous interior.

“These university students live like beggars,” the Count sighs after a long pause. “You won’t be used to it.”

“I am confident that I will manage,” Konstantin intones, and there is an audible bite in his voice. Count Enzholrayev turns to face him, and though his face is as much of a serene mask as ever, his gaze, precisely like Konstantin’s in hue and intensity, locks on him and Konstantin feels as though he’s been caught by the wrist.

“You will get nothing from me henceforth,” the Count says softly. “You may write to me, but I may not answer. If you present yourself here, you will not be received.”

“And Kirill?”

“Although Komfyerin has not, as far as I know, publicly denounced me, there is no doubt of his sharing your sentiments and approving of your actions. I will not receive him either.”

Father and son stand before each other for an excruciatingly long moment. The sudden clatter of wheels and hooves on gravel penetrates the gloom.

“That is all,” the Count pronounces with a nod. Before his father can turn away, Konstantin sweeps nearly to the floor in a graceful bow, and taking his hat from his father’s desk, strides out to the waiting carriage without uttering a word.

 

 

When Konstantin arrives at Kirill’s address, he does not expect to find him awake and dressed. But he is, and when he opens the door, they both stand motionless in momentary surprise. Konstantin uses the moment to take in the state of Kirill’s things: everything is tidy, but distinctly shabby. His garrett is barely a room and a half. A curtain conceals what must be the bed in one corner; there is but one small table, on which are piled a number of books, one chair, and a sofa that sags pitifully in the middle.

“Your father—” Kirill begins finally, stepping aside and motioning for Konstantin to come in.

“I won’t go back there again,” Konstantin interrupts, and when Kirill looks back at him, he is astonished to find that his friend’s face, far from being angry, looks like that of a lost child. Seeing this look, he understands.

“Kostya,” he murmurs, invoking hazy nearly-forgotten images of a home that is no longer theirs. They are embracing, Kirill pulling Konstantin close, Konstantin letting him.

“You will stay with me, Kostya,” Kirill assures him more than once. He feels rather than hears Konstantin breathe a soft “thank you” into his neck.


End file.
